


The Smell of Roses and a Hint of Fish

by R_Clearwater



Category: Pie in the Sky (TV)
Genre: Gen, finale fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22236115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Clearwater/pseuds/R_Clearwater
Summary: The smell of fresh steak-and-kidney pie had long since dissipated by the time a familiar figure made his way to the front of the entrance. All of the guests that evening -- Guthrie, Morton, Henderson, Gary -- had long since gone, leaving Henry and Margaret to bask in what felt like the end of a five year chapter. There's still a hint of pie, a trace of wine, and a blissfully infinite amount of silence.That is, there was blissful silence until Henry realizes the figure outside is never going to announce his presence.
Relationships: Freddy Fisher & Henry Crabbe
Kudos: 2





	The Smell of Roses and a Hint of Fish

**Author's Note:**

> Because I loved the finale, but there was one thing I needed to change.

The smell of fresh steak-and-kidney pie had long since dissipated by the time a familiar figure made his way to the front of the entrance. All of the guests that evening -- Guthrie, Morton, Henderson, Gary -- had long since gone, leaving Henry and Margaret to bask in what felt like the end of a five year chapter. There's still a hint of pie, a trace of wine, and a blissfully infinite amount of silence.

That is, there was blissful silence until Henry realizes the figure outside is never going to announce his presence. Really, even though he supposes he has an inkling of sympathy for the figure standing just out of sight, he has far more irritation at the sight of the interruption.

_Weren’t you supposed to be getting drinks?_ Henry did overhear a bit of Fisher’s plans with that marketing woman, having been unimpressed with the idea but content not to say a word. Perhaps plans had fallen through. Perhaps entertaining H.M. was proving to be more of a challenge than anything else. Still, whatever's going on, he will remain firm. If his former boss had only come to demand he return to the job, Henry would deeply relish the taste of saying, “Absolutely not.” 

Of course, if his former boss is only going to lurk in the shadows, Henry will let the man continue to do so. It isn’t on him to coax his old colleague anywhere the man didn’t want to go. And, frankly, he's not really in the mood for histrionics. 

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Margaret quietly asks, her eyes attempting to nudge him into action. 

He isn’t convinced to move a muscle.

“I’d rather not open that can of worms, thanks.” Snorting softly, his wife returns to swirling her wine and digging into some more of that delectable pie. 

“Well, if you won’t, I will.” 

She only rises a few inches from her seat before he's already protesting the action, now feeling moved to get this part of the night over and let the man in. If nothing else, it would hopefully result in that blissful silence being regained.

“Crabbe,” Fisher indifferently remarks the name as the door opens. Yes, the only signs of his true feelings are the minute shifts in his facial features -- shifts so subtle only a detective would care to notice. “I was wondering when you’d let me in.”

“Yes?” Tacking on a sir to that question, as customary as the habit had become, would only reinforce the idea that Henry's interested in rejoining the police. Seeing as how that'd be an outright lie, he’ll settle for toeing the line between bluntness and impertinence. “What is it?”

Squirming on the other side of the door, the ACC seems perfectly alright with not stepping over the threshold. Henry looks just as satisfied with letting the man stew outside, not desiring his former colleague’s company anytime soon. Only Margaret’s exasperated “Invite him in, for goodness sake!” brings both men inside the restaurant.

It’s awkward. Awkward and embarrassing, and entirely stilted.

And it takes him six minutes to bend the silence once again.

“I’ve been a bit of a bully, haven’t I, Crabbe?” It's that that really bothers the man, after all this time. But now that Henry knows about Hatterly and Quicke, he can’t confess to being terribly surprised. The only thing that surprises him is Fisher publicly admitting it.

“Yes, you have.” No use in mincing words; the only mincing he usually cares to try involves pie. And there’ll be no verbal forgiveness just yet, either. As much as Henry has come to terms with his personal feelings toward his career these last five years, the emotions making themselves painfully obvious ever since he could smell again, he couldn’t give Freddy Fisher an out just yet. He couldn’t pretend to make it all better for his friend, to blindly sweep aside what had happened in an attempt to placate a man who's clearly uncomfortable with himself.

“I suppose I’ve been a bit stupid, too,” Probably now thinking of the manipulation he has recently been victim to, Fisher’s face contorts into a mess of frustration and regret. His mouth twitches as the self-berating thoughts begin to revolve, his eyes solidly reflecting a feigned apathy with hints of blame curling up in the corners. “Just like one of those ‘flatulent desk-jockeys’, I suppose.”

Remembering that drink-induced conversation as though it were only yesterday, silently promising Margaret he would explain everything later, Henry sticks to a heavy sigh.

“You’ve had a time of trouble,” Seems like some equivalent of sympathy would be on the menu tonight.

“It’s nothing like losing my sense of smell or taste for six weeks.” The ACC bitterly intones, glancing at his old friend in not-so-subtle concern. “And, yes, I heard about that, Crabbe.”

Managing not to stiffen in distaste, putting away any thoughts of who revealed that to Fisher, Henry keeps a calm grip on his wine glass and reminds himself that those desensitizing days are gone. 

“It’d been funny, at first,” The police officer morosely confesses, “To think of Henry Crabbe without his nose, without his sense of smell.” But, then, it hadn’t been funny. Much like the chef losing crucial sensations, Freddy had recently lost a vital part of himself, too. Still hadn’t found it, much to his disappointment. And while teasing Crabbe’s situation had initially helped to lessen the pain of his own, that had only lasted for so long. And then, when _she_ had slipped off to Africa, it was even less funny. 

Freddy does still have Her Majesty and that drink to look forward to, that potential promotion and that gleaming front-page paper. 

But after watching his old friend slipped away from the red carpet and toward a carefree existence, after observing Henry Crabbe win back his life after so many years of playing this stupid game, he can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if their roles were reversed. If _he_ were the one who hadn’t allowed the pomposity of the world to shape him into the man he was today. If he had walked away from the prestige, hadn’t gone searching for validation among people who didn’t care.

“Now I think I’ve lost the humour.” 

Staring out into the restaurant, this establishment he knows will be damn successful, he can’t help but feel a swell of discomfort take over again. What's he doing here? This isn’t his scene, this isn’t where he belonged. The delicious and fattening food, the homey atmosphere that screams of comfort, it isn’t really a place he fits into normally, is it?

And the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to leave. Freddy understands his role in this scene and it isn’t one that had him sitting down at the table.

“Won’t you try some of the steak-and-kidney pie?”

It’s Margaret who speaks for the two of them, who invites the man to stay. It’s she who officially asks him to be a part of this scene, to let his role change and be whatever he wants it to be.

Instinctually, the answer should be no. Heaven knows the calories alone should stop him in his tracks. And after all, his wife would’ve been the first to say that an ACC befitting of the title would not dare to--

Right. She’s in California, toasting herself a new life and ridding all traces of him as fast as she could, no doubt.

_A new life, remember, Freddy?_

The very thing he has craved for years is something she has already gotten a head start on. The idea of starting fresh, building anew for himself and living the life he wanted is something he's never going to get around to at this rate, is it? Getting drinks with the marketer, apathetically flirting with the woman's hardly conducive to a fresh start. Accepting a promotion that will continue to overtake his life, that will further restrict his choices will also hardly be building anew.

“Freddy?”

Margaret, it seemed, is getting concerned.

“Yes.”

It’s an answer to her and her question. An admittance and an acceptance.

And though it’s tersely spoken, followed by another awkward pause and his fumbling around for a seat to take, it’s a start. 


End file.
